by Anna Gavalda
“Well? Don’t lie, you hear? Otherwise I’d rather you didn’t answer.”
“A long time.”
“That’s obvious”—he grimaced—“that’s obvious. One hundred and five pounds and five foot nine, at this rate you’ll be able to fit between the glue and the poster before long.”
“What poster?” she asked naively.
“On a billboard.”
“Oh, I see! Excuse me, I wasn’t familiar with that expression.”
He was about to say something but changed his mind. He reached over for his prescription pad, sighed, then once again looked her straight in the eyes.
“Are you eating?”
“Of course I’m eating!”
A sudden wave of weariness came over her. She was sick of all this talk about her weight, downright fed up. For nearly twenty-seven years everyone had been bugging her about it. Couldn’t they just let up? She was here, for God’s sake! She was alive, after all. Doing as much as anyone else. She was just as cheerful, sad, brave, vulnerable and exasperating as any other young woman. There was a person inside her! There was somebody there!
For pity’s sake, couldn’t they talk to her about something else for a change?
“You do agree, one hundred and five pounds isn’t a lot.”
“Yes,” she conceded, defeated, “yes, I agree. It’s been a long time since I weighed that little. I . . .”
“You?”
“No. Nothing.”
“Tell me.”
“I . . . I’ve had better times in my life, I think.”
He didn’t react.
“Will you make out the certificate for me?”
“Yes, yes, you’ll get your certificate,” he replied, shrugging. “Uh, what did you say the name of the company was?”
“Which company?”
“This one, where we are, I mean yours—”
“All-Kleen.”
“Sorry?”
“All-Kleen.”
“Capital A l-l-c-l-e-a-n.”
She corrected him: “No, it’s k-l-e-e-n. I know, it doesn’t make sense. They should have called it All-clean c-l-e-a-n, but I think they wanted something different . . . It’s more professional, more, uh, tuhrendy . . .”
He didn’t get it.
“And what do they do exactly?”
“Who?”
“This company.”
She leaned back, stretching her arms out in front of her, and, with dead seriousness, in a flight attendant’s voice, began to recite the mission statement of her new job:
“ ‘Ladies and gentlemen, All-Kleen will satisfy your every need where cleaning is concerned. For individuals or businesses, in your home or office, with clients as diverse as property managers, professional offices, agencies, hospitals, housing developments, apartment buildings and workshops, All-Kleen will be there on the spot to offer you immediate satisfaction. All-Kleen tidies, cleans, sweeps, vacuums, waxes, scrubs, disinfects, shines, polishes, deodorizes and leaves you with a healthy environment. We adapt our schedule to fit your needs, and we are flexible and discreet. Our work is meticulous; our rates are competitive. All-Kleen—professionals at your service!’ ”
She’d delivered this remarkable spiel in one breath. Her classy little doctor sat there speechless, then:
“Is that some kind of joke?”
“Course not. Anyway, you’re about to meet the dream team, they’re waiting just outside the door.”
“And what’s your role in all that?”
“I just told you.”
“That’s what you do, really?”
“Yup, I tidy, clean, sweep, vacuum, wax—the whole nine yards.”
“You’re a cleaning la—”
“Uh-uh. I’m a cleaning operative, if you don’t mind.”
He couldn’t tell if she was serious.
“Why are you doing it?”
She opened her eyes wide.
“Well, what I mean is, why are you doing this job? And not something else?”
“Why shouldn’t I?”
“Well, wouldn’t you rather be doing something a bit more—”
“Rewarding?”
“Yes.”
“No, I wouldn’t.”
He sat like that a little while longer, his pencil in the air, his mouth open; then he looked at his watch to read the date, and questioned her without raising his head:
“Last name?”
“Fauque.”
“First name?”
“Camille.”
“Date of birth?”
“February 11, 1977.”
“There you go, Ms. Fauque, you’re fit for work.”
“Great. How much do I owe you?”
“Nothing—that is, All-Kleen pays.”
“Aaah, All-Kleen!” she exclaimed, getting up with a theatrical gesture. “Here I come, one hundred percent fit to clean your toilet!”
He walked her to the door.
He wasn’t smiling anymore, and had put his conscientious big-shot doctor mask back on.
As he was opening the door for her, he held out his other hand:
“A few pounds, won’t you try? For my sake?”
She shook her head. That sort of thing was a waste of time with her. Blackmail and sympathy—she’d had her fair share.
“I’ll see what I can do,” she said. “I’ll try.”
Samia went in after her.
Camille went down the steps of the van, feeling her jacket pockets for a cigarette. Fat Mamadou and Carine were sitting on a bench, making comments about the people walking by, and complaining because they wanted to go home.
“Well?” laughed Mamadou. “What the hell were you doin’ in there? I got my train to catch! He put a spell on you or what?”
Camille sat on the ground and smiled. Not the same kind of smile, a transparent smile, this time. She couldn’t mess with Mamadou, she was much too smart for her.
“Is he nice?” asked Carine, spitting out a bit of chewed fingernail.
“Fabulous.”
“I knew it!” said Mamadou triumphantly. “I was sure! Didn’t I tell you and Samia she was stark naked in there?”
“He’ll make you stand on the scale.”
“Who, me?” cried Mamadou. “Me? He thinks I’m gonna get on his scale?”
Mamadou weighed at least two hundred pounds. She pounded her thighs. “Not on your life! If I get on that scale, I’ll flatten it and him along with it! What else did he do?”
“Maybe he’ll give you a shot,” suggested Carine.
“A shot for what?”
“No, no shots,” Camille reassured her. “He’ll just listen to your heart and lungs.”
“Oh, that’s okay.”
“And he’ll touch your tummy.”
“What?!” She frowned. “Oh no, just let him try! If he touches my tummy, I’ll eat him alive. Little white doctors, they taste good.”
She exaggerated her accent and rubbed the colorful cloth of her dress.
“Yeah, they make real good eatin’. So the old folks used to say. Fry ’em up with manioc and chicken combs. Mmmm-mm!”
“And what about that Bredart, what’s he gonna do to her?”
Bredart—Josy was her first name—was a regular bitch, their resident shit-stirrer and punching bag and vicious to boot. She also happened to be their boss. “Chief Worksite Manager” was what it said, clearly, on her badge. Bredart made life miserable within the limited means at her disposal—but that was exhausting enough.
“Josy? Nothing. As soon as the doctor gets a whiff of her, he’ll ask her to put her clothes back on, lickety-split.”
Carine wasn’t far off. Josy Bredart, in addition to the qualities listed above, perspired profusely.
When it was Carine’s turn, Mamadou pulled a wad of papers from her bag and placed them in Camille’s lap. Camille had promised her she’d take a look, and now she was trying to make sense of the whole mess:
“What’s this?”
“It�
�s the form from the AFDC.”
“No, but all these names here?”
“My family, what’d you think?”
“Which family?”
“Which family? Which family? My family! Use your head, Camille!”
“All these names—this is your family?”
“Every single one,” she said proudly.
“How many kids do you have, anyway?”
“I got five, and my brother got four.”
“But why are all of them on here?”
“Where, here?”
“Yeah, on this paper.”
“It’s easier this way because my brother and sister-in-law live at our place and we have the same mailbox so—”
“But that’s no good. They say that’s no good. You can’t have nine children—”
“And why not?” she retorted. “My mother, she had twelve!”
“Hang on, don’t get carried away, Mamadou. I’m just telling you what it says here. They’re asking you to explain the situation, and to come in with all the birth certificates.”
“What for?”
“Well, I guess it’s not legal, your thing. I don’t think your brother and you are allowed to put all your kids on one form—”
“Yeah, but my brother, he got nothin’!”
“Is he working?”
“Course he’s working. He does the freeways.”
“And your sister-in-law?”
Mamadou wrinkled her nose:
“She don’t do nothing. Not a thing, I tell you. She won’t budge, that mean old bitch. She never moves her big fat ass at all!”
Camille smiled to herself: what on earth would a big fat ass be in Mamadou’s eyes?
“Do they both have papers?”
“Hell yes.”
“Well, then let them file a separate declaration.”
“But my sister-in-law, she don’t want to go to the AFDC, and my brother, he works nights so in the daytime he’s sleeping. You see?”
“I see. But right now, how much aid are you getting, for how many kids?”
“For four.”
“For four?”
“Yeah, that’s what I been trying to tell you from the beginning, but you’re like all white folks, you’re always right and you never listen.”
Camille exhaled, a little sigh of irritation.
“The problem I wanted to tell you about is that they forgot my Sissi.”
“Which number kid is that, Mysissi?”
“She’s no number, stupid!” seethed Mamadou. “She’s my youngest. Little Sissi.”
“Oh, Sissi.”
“Yes.”
“So why isn’t she on here?”
“Hey, Camille, you doing this on purpose or what? That’s what I been asking you since a while back.”
Camille didn’t know what to say.
“The best thing to do is to go see the AFDC people with your brother or sister-in-law and all your papers and explain it to the lady there.”
“Why you say ‘the lady’? Which lady, anyway?”
“Any old lady!” said Camille, getting annoyed.
“Okay, all right, don’t get so riled up. I was just asking you a simple question ’cause I thought you knew her.”
“Mamadou, I don’t know anyone at the AFDC. I’ve never been there in my life, don’t you see?”
Camille handed the papers back to her, along with a jumble of small ads, pictures of cars, and phone bills.
She heard Mamadou grumbling, “She says ‘the lady’ so I ask which lady, which makes sense ’cause there’s men there too. How can she know, if she’s never been there, if it’s a lady? There’s guys there too! Is she Mrs. Know-it-all or what?”
“Hey, are you sulking?”
“No, I’m not sulking. Just you says you gonna help me but you don’ help me, that’s all.”
“I’ll go with you all then.”
“To the AFDC?”
“Yes.”
“You’ll speak to the lady?”
“Yes.”
“And what if it’s not her?”
Camille thought it might be time to sacrifice some of her usual cool, but just then Samia came back: “Your turn, Mamadou . . .” To Camille she said, “Here, the doctor’s phone number.”
“What for?”
“What for? What for? How the hell should I know? To play doctor, dummy! He asked me to give it to you.”
The doctor had written the number of his cell on a prescription slip and added: I’m prescribing a good dinner, call me.
Camille crumpled the piece of paper and tossed it in the gutter.
“You know,” added Mamadou, rising heavily to her feet and pointing at Camille with her index finger, “if you fix things for me and my Sissi, I’ll ask my brother to fix it so you find yourself a sweetheart . . .”
“I thought your brother was building freeways.”
“Freeways, and spells and undoing spells, you name it.”
Camille rolled her eyes.
“What about me?” Samia burst in. “Can he find me a guy?”
Mamadou walked past her, clawing at the air in front of her face:
“You give me back my bucket first and then we’ll talk!”
“Shit, stop bugging me! I don’t have your bucket, it’s mine. Your bucket was red.”
“Get lost,” she hissed, walking away, “damn.”
Mamadou hadn’t even finished climbing the steps and already the van was rocking. Have fun in there, thought Camille, smiling, as she picked up her bag. Good luck . . .
“We going?”
“I’m coming.”
“What’re you doing? You taking the métro with us?”
“No. I’ll walk home.”
“That’s right, you live over there in the fancy neighborhood . . .”
“Yeah, right.”
“So long, see you tomorrow.”
“ ’Bye, girls.”
Camille was invited for dinner at Pierre and Mathilde’s place. She left a message to cancel, relieved that she had gotten their answering machine.
The ever so light Camille Fauque went on her way, her feet on the ground thanks only to the weight of her backpack or, harder to gauge, the weight of the stones and pebbles which rattled around inside her body. That’s what she should have told the doctor about. If she had really wanted to . . . Or if she’d had the courage? Or the time, maybe? Time, surely, she reassured herself, not entirely convinced. Time was a notion she could no longer grasp. Too many weeks and months had gone by that she hadn’t even been a part of, and her tirade, earlier, that absurd monologue where she was trying to convince herself that she was just as resilient as the next girl, was nothing but a pack of lies.
What was the word she had used? “Alive,” was that it? That’s ridiculous; Camille Fauque wasn’t alive.
Camille Fauque was a ghost who worked at night and piled up stones by day. A ghost who moved slowly, spoke little, and with a graceful shimmy made herself scarce.
Camille Fauque was the sort of young woman you always saw from behind, fragile and elusive.
But we shouldn’t trust that little scene we just watched unfold, however casual it might have seemed. However easy and natural. Camille had been lying. Merely trying to feed the right answers to the doctor; she made an effort, controlled herself, and answered, “Present” to avoid drawing attention.
But she couldn’t stop thinking about the doctor. She didn’t care about his cell phone number, but she wondered if she hadn’t missed an opportunity, all the same. He seemed the patient type, more attentive than the others. Maybe she should have . . . at one point she had almost . . . She was tired, she should have put her elbows on the desk too, and told him the truth. Told him that if she wasn’t eating at all, or almost nothing, it was because the stones were taking up all the room in her belly. That she woke up every day with the feeling that she was chewing gravel, that even before she opened her eyes she was suffocating. And that the world around her had become
meaningless, and every new day was like a weight that was impossible to lift. So she cried. Not that she was sad, but to make it pass. The flood of tears, in the end, helped her to digest the pile of stones and get her breath back.
Would he have listened? Would he have understood? Of course he would have. And that was precisely why she’d kept quiet.
She didn’t want to end up like her mother. She refused to become confessional. She didn’t know where it would lead once she started. Too far, much too far, too deep and too dark. All things being equal, she just didn’t have the guts to look back.
Give them the answers they want, yes, but don’t look back.
She went into the Franprix downstairs from her place and forced herself to buy a few things to eat, as a gesture toward the young doctor’s kindness, and Mamadou’s laugh. Mamadou’s expansive laughter, the dumb job at All-Kleen, that bitch Bredart, Carine’s unbelievable stories, the squabbles, the cigarettes they shared, the physical fatigue, their crazy uncontrollable giggles and the foul moods they got into sometimes—all of that helped her to live. It really did, it helped her to live.
She wandered up and down the aisles a few times before she made up her mind, bought some bananas, four yogurts, and two bottles of water.
There was that weirdo from her building. A tall strange guy with pants that were way too short, glasses held together by Band-Aids, and the behavior of a Martian. The minute he picked something up he put it back down, took a few steps, then changed his mind, picked it up again, shook his head and finally left the checkout line, when it was his turn at the register, to go and put the thing back where it belonged. Once she even saw him leave the store, then go back in to buy the jar of mayonnaise that he’d rejected only seconds before. Ridiculous, sad clown amusing the crowd, stuttering in front of the salesgirls, and wringing Camillle’s heart.